


Faithful to His Fires

by Paraphilia



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Drama, Epistolary, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Historical, Letters, M/M, POV First Person, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraphilia/pseuds/Paraphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson harbors what he thinks are unrequited feelings for Holmes. This is the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faithful to His Fires

**Author's Note:**

> On the morning of the 5th of October, 1902, Sherlock Holmes emerged from his room at 221B Baker Street, only to discover that Doctor Watson had disappeared. In Watson's place was a note, carefully placed on the downstairs mantelpiece, that Holmes read with unaccustomed trepidation.
> 
> The contents of this note are printed below. Readers will forgive the creative liberties I have taken with Watson's voice, Conan Doyle's timeline, and his characters' emo homosexual angst. Carry on.

My good friend,  
  
I must apologize for my precipitous departure. It is not an act of pique, although it may well appear to be so; rather, it is a pre-meditated act, and indeed one that I have been contemplating for several months. Yesterday's unfortunate discussion was, if you will, the straw that broke the camel's back. Nothing more.  
  
Of course, I shan't be so unreasonable as to disappear altogether. I have yet to find alternate lodgings, but once I have done so, I shall return to gather my possessions, and to bid you a proper farewell. After our years of partnership, Holmes, I owe you at least that much. I owe myself that much. You have always been dear to me, and as you now know, you are perhaps even dearer to me than you had thought. It has been kind of you to tolerate my presence, over the latter half of this year, given your new knowledge of my affections. Immeasurably kind.  
  
For a time, I could scarcely credit my good fortune. Our friendship had weathered this most ridiculous of obstacles, and had emerged -- or so it seemed -- unscathed. It was you, I recall, that used the word "ridiculous," not in contempt of my sentiments, but rather of the notion that we might cease to be friends. Perversely enough, that very statement of yours indentured me. Your patience, Holmes. Your decency. Your tolerance. 

But there comes a time, as you well know, when tolerance chafes. You have seen it yourself -- on the faces of petite launderettes and sullen, sable-eyed heirs. The long, slow hunger of not-having; it can chafe away at the human heart, and produce a poison more corrosive than industrial dye. It stained me black. Scoured me clean. Of logic, of rationality, and certainly of any concern for your well-being. The hope your acceptance had given me was, somehow, the very thing that drove me to seek your condemnation. Was I seeking condemnation? Frankly, I can't remember -- but it must have been so, for otherwise, I would not have dared yesterday's indiscretion. Or, if I were to be charitable to myself, I could claim that it was a jot too much of the old whiskey-and-soda. What do you say, Holmes? Hope or alcohol, which is deadlier? Neither as deadly, I propose, as your touch. The violin -- your throat -- your mouth --

Forgive me. Useless though it is for me to beg forgiveness, for I know that you have already forgiven me; it was in the lay of your hands, and the gentleness with which you turned me away. Your eyes, bright with reason. Always so reasonable, Holmes. You confound me. How astutely you pared my fumbling words down to their very bones! And yet you were so merciful, merciful as you only are with me.

You must not take this gesture of mine as an ungrateful one. I have only gratitude for your staunch and unwavering support of me, even in the light of your recent discoveries; never once did you suggest that I see an alienist, or that I see a priest, or that I reform myself. (How did you put it? "Only behaviors, my dear Watson, can be rectified. Not inclinations." Well said.) My  _inclinations_ , however, have grown considerably out of hand, and should they continue along this path, my behavior will soon become reprehensible, as well. Indeed, it has already become so. Yesternight was sure evidence of that.

Allow me, at any rate, this act of recompense. Well, I daresay that it is a form of self-discipline as much as it is anything else; you have your syringe, Holmes, and I have you. Both are untenable addictions that we must cure ourselves of. I can hardly cure myself of mine, if I am constantly put within reach of that which I ought not to have. Surely you understand. As one addict to another, if nothing else.

My dearest friend. I shall miss you. Even as I folded my shirts into my rickety little satchel, I wavered; even as I began to write this note, I doubted. But I have become clear, in speaking to you through this note, just as I become calm upon conversing with you in person.

I am determined to be logical, Holmes. For once. My illogical disposition, such as it is, has disturbed not only my peace of mind, but yours; it has even dared to disturb the sanctity of our fellowship. As such, I must cure it, regardless of your good-natured and too-kind acceptance of my faults. Naturally, my first order of concern is to find proper lodgings, and an occupation to replace the income my Holmesian manuscripts have brought me; I already have a position in mind, and an employer that will most likely be happy to furnish me with it. After this is accomplished, I will find myself an alienist of good repute, who is known for handling cases such as mine. I believe that, after a time of forced withdrawal, this addiction will end. Then, and only then, dare I see you again -- never to live with you, as we have been doing for these many years, but simply to meet with you as an amiable acquaintance, and as a past accomplice of shared adventures, joys and miseries.

I shall keep you informed of my progress. This, too, I owe to you.

 

Ever faithfully yours,

John H. Watson

Ah! A postscript, if I may. My books have been sorted into a series of small parcels; you will find them in my room, arranged upon my desk. Kindly have them sent to the address that I will provide you with, when I have found a suitable residence. The parcels are open, which is to say that you are most welcome to extract your favorite texts from them, should you wish to retain any as reference materials for your cases, or as pure mental exercises. I remember your distinctly avaricious gaze falling upon some of my medical periodicals, and in particular, on the most recent printing of  _The Lancet_. I also recommend  _The American Journal of Insanity_ , which contains an article on that physician you so enjoy dissecting, Dr. Charles H. Nichols. His work intrigues you greatly, does it not? Do keep both journals; perhaps, through correspondence, we might still conduct our customary conversations. This parting shan't be a total loss; I guarantee it.


End file.
